


Liminal spaces

by jamjar, Petra



Series: How to Marry a Millionaire [6]
Category: DCU - Comicsverse
Genre: Costumes, Identity Porn, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-06
Updated: 2005-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 17:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/114895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamjar/pseuds/jamjar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And despite a few minor inconveniences, they were all quite content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Liminal spaces

**Author's Note:**

> **Cowritten with Jamjar**. Thanks to [](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/profile)[**brown_betty**](http://brown-betty.livejournal.com/), as ever, for providing compassionate and helpful beta services. Thanks also to everyone who has supported the authors in this madcap endeavor; without patience, affection, and the occasional shout of "Stop writing them like lesbians!" this would have been a much more painful writing experience, to say nothing of the reading.

  
His hands are hurting enough to let him know that they need to be taken care of quickly. Whatever the substance in those canisters was, it ate through the gauntlets without any problems. Robin's gauntlets, replacements from the Titans, are made of a material that didn't dissolve, and they're perfect for this cleanup duty. That he has to remind himself of this is annoying; he knows he can trust Robin to do the job well, but that does nothing to allay the instinctive drive to be there. The pain in his hands is a valuable reminder.

He hears Nightwing pull up as he gets out of the car and heads over to the light.

The damage is less severe than he feared, worse than he hoped. Where the liquid splashed, it did a good job of melting the gauntlets and the skin underneath feels burnt. There are tears through the material. He can move his hands, though not without some pain.

Nightwing's costume offers less protection than Batman's own, but tonight, the trade off in agility paid off. There are no visible marks on him and probably no hidden ones. Nightwing's as good at hiding an injury as any of them, but they've worked together for too long to be able to hide from each other.

It cuts both ways, and now Nightwing's looking at his hands. "That thing she threw at you?"

"Appears to react like acid. Have Robin get a sample."

"If he hasn't already." Nightwing smiles, a quick twitch of his mouth. "I'm thinking of getting him a chemistry kit for Christmas. Let me see your hands." His tone is a reminder that Nightwing led the Titans and the Outsiders, and that he's talked to any number of recalcitrant and foolish vigilantes in training. "Do I need to call Alfred?" Nightwing is frowning, and his concern is all too evident. The mask which should hide his expressions singularly fails to do its job.

It occurs to him, not for the first time, to suggest something with more coverage. As always, he fights down the instinct. There are reasons why people like them have different masks. Superman's disguise is one of the best there is.

"The damage isn't that severe," he says. "I can take care of it myself."

"Uh-huh." Nightwing sounds skeptical enough to make him smile a little. There's a certain reassurance in the knowing doubt of your companions. "Tell you what, let's just call that plan C. Since you already nixed Plan A, I figure we'll go with B. I'll do it."

"That's not necessary. You're neglecting the--"

"No, I'm not." Nightwing meets his eyes and the mask. "You've got Robin out there, doing what he does best, and there are only two reasons you'd have for sending me out there. Either you don't trust him, trust his skills, or you just want to be there for the sake of being there. Either way, it's stupid, and you're not--" Nightwing stops and grins, that same smile that's always made him the best person to deal with scared victims and angry allies. "You're mostly not that stupid. Now, sit down and let me do this." His smile changes. "This is hardly the first time I've helped you patch up your wounds, Batman. Want to tell me what's different now?"

The cave is never silent, never even that quiet, and in the silence after those words, Batman can hear every sound made by every machine or creature living in it. "This isn't your job anymore," he says.

"We're family, we take care of each other," Nightwing says. "That's always our job." He lets go of his hands and walks away. The first aid equipment hasn't moved since he was here every night. "Do you remember the first time I was seriously injured?" He sits down, waiting for Batman to come over.

"You didn't seem worried at the time," Batman says, and sits.

"Yeah, well, I was terrified."

"I know." Nightwing looks up at that, and Batman smiles. "You weren't that good an actor back then."

"Huh. I thought I covered it pretty well. You didn't--" Nightwing frowns and bends over, assessing the injury and cleaning it up as much as he can. "What I was really scared of wasn't the actual damage. I'd had a broken leg before, fractured my arm falling off a rope when I was five, again when I was eight. It wasn't the first time I'd been hurt." The dirt and the dried blood have been cleaned off enough for him to start trying to take off Batman's ruined gauntlets. "It wasn't the injury, I was just-- I wanted to train, get back on the streets and do my job again. I was embarrassed by not being able to do things, take care of myself -- and you told me that I had to let you and Alfred help me. That I had to learn to rely on you to take care of me when I couldn't do it for myself."

Nightwing looks up and waits until he makes eye contact, then smiles. "You're a great teacher, Bruce, but you sometimes find it hard to practice what you preach."

Bruce makes a sound that's almost a laugh. "That's not a lesson any of you learned well."

"Lead by example." Dick squeezes his shoulder and slowly starts to peel off the glove. The solution's helped loosen them, but they still take off some skin.

Dick looks his hands over. The substance ate through -- burned through -- most of the layers, but didn't quite make it to the skin, just weakened the surface enough for Gotham's streets to do the rest. There are bits of gravel, small but deep, embedded in the skin. He picks up the tweezers and starts taking it out, concentrating on the task.

 _  
**Liminal spaces - DCU story, 'How to Marry a Millionaire' end**   
_

* * * * *

  
The way the cave echoes, Dick thinks sometimes he can still hear the first time he ever fired up the Batmobile, the first time he laughed, or Tim, or Jason. So it's never silent, but it feels that way, and sometimes that's good. Familiar. This is the other part of working together, and he can hear Bruce's voice, still, telling him that it's just as important as anything they do for each other on the streets

When he's pretty sure he's got the gravel out, he cleans Bruce's hands and gets the soak ready. It won't actually regrow the skin, but it shaves a lot of time off. Bruce will be wearing gloves or realistic pseudoskin to cover the back of his hands for a week, Dick reckons. Maybe longer, if the junk in his system slows down the rate of healing.

"There should be no long term effects," Bruce says. He gives Dick a look that's only a smile because it's Bruce. "I've had more aches from a normal night out than this is giving me."

"Uh-huh. Try that with someone who doesn't know how bad some of those can leave you, and Bruce?" Dick pauses and looks at him. "You don't define normal like the rest of the world."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "And you do?"

Dick grins. "Bruce, you're not really considering me 'rest of the world', are you?"

Bruce shakes his head. "I know better."

"You should by now."

Bruce stretches out his hands and examines them. His father was a doctor and sometimes Dick thinks he can see echoes of that. Bruce has always been good about taking care of other people's physical injuries.

"They're good," Bruce says at last. "It would have been awkward doing them myself."

Dick shrugs and starts to put stuff away, smiling a little. "Hey, just saving you the Alfred lecture until you get your strength back. You need help getting the uniform off?" He keeps his voice casual. Bruce can appreciate the appearance, even if he knows it's a lie.

"I wouldn't want to undo your good work."

The uniform is designed to be hard to take off if you don't know what you're doing -- Dick can do without the electric shocks, thank you -- but quick to remove when it's necessary. Under it, there are a couple of bruises, but no particular trouble. The cave's temperature doesn't allow for a long examination and Bruce is changed and on the stairs in five minutes.

* * * * *

  
Bruce Wayne is probably the most infuriating person that Nightwing has ever had the pleasure of saving, except possibly for Slade Wilson. He's had far too much time recently to think about him, and some things have just gotten under his skin. There are a lot of issues that don't add up about Bruce, including how someone could be that clueless and have amassed such a financial empire at the same time. He's really implausibly dense.

The other things that don't add up occasionally make Nightwing consider smothering him in his sleep, just to see how long it would be before honest Bat-reflexes kicked in to save him.

He wouldn't be that infuriating if it weren't for everything that goes unspoken and unresolved. There's a lot that Nightwing knows is there, has to be there, that he just can't see. If they could just never, ever meet again, it wouldn't matter that much that Gotham's favored son is bound and determined to be a blithering idiot. Nightwing could forget the way Bruce Wayne wastes money and flirts indiscriminately.

Given time, he could even manage to forget the way Bruce makes love like someone who has incidentally spent a decade of his life in physical and mental training devoted to learning exactly what the effect of every touch on the human body consists of, and then mastering his ability to apply those touches.

Without the secrets, he wouldn't be Bruce Wayne at all, and there would be absolutely no reason for Nightwing to climb through the extremely expensive window of his lavishly furnished penthouse. He would just be another idiot, Lex Luthor without the charisma or sense. Or the evil. It's the deception that causes problems.

Occasionally the name "Harvey Dent" comes to Nightwing's mind, but he tries to ignore that voice. It sounds too much like Batman, and that's too weird.

There has to be someone who really understands Bruce. His butler. The notorious Selina Kyle. Former Police Commissioner Gordon. Barbara Gordon -- but she hasn't been around town lately, and she didn't part on the best of terms with Bruce. If she knew about his liaison --

She probably knows. If nothing else, she can read Nightwing like an open book. She's likely at least as good at reading Bruce.

Maybe she could figure out how to get at the missing pieces. Crack the code. Get past the -- god, it has to be all an act, doesn't it? No one could be that stupid -- she could get past the act.

If he knew where to get in touch with her. If she'd help. Too many ifs.

Sometimes he misses Amy Rohrbach. Someone to play good-cop bad-cop with, though whether anyone would be willing to let him go bad-cop on Bruce Wayne is kind of moot. He's not sure he could.

There's just something about the man. His mouth, maybe. His hands, maybe -- and they're really too rugged for someone who just plays, what is it, handball, and skis like Sonny Bono.

It's not even worth starting to think about scars. No.

There's no mask big enough to help him deal with that.

Easier to climb into bed with Bruce and watch him smile hazily -- he's half-asleep, like anybody sane is at five in the morning. He feels disturbingly comfortable and warm -- no one so impossible to deal with in an adult and reasoned fashion should sigh against Nightwing's neck like that.

It's really not fair, but none of this has been anything like fair. It's not Nightwing's turf, it's not his social milieu -- it's not even his vocabulary, with terms like milieu floating around. He should really stick to the cape community.

Outright capes.

Capes out of the closet.

Except for how he hasn't even come out to his family yet, technically speaking.

Keeping secrets from them is like the total opposite of coals to Newcastle, whatever that is.

Sometimes, while he listens to Bruce's breathing hitch in his dreams, Nightwing wonders what Batman knows or suspects about this whole mess. Or whatever the right term is when he's got to know and he hasn't said anything about it.

It would be easier to just go with the oldest impulse Nightwing's got and kiss Batman. Simpler, anyway, if he could just break through all the bullshit.

Maybe it would cure him of this Bruce Wayne -- thing.

But when he wakes up with Bruce petting him gently, nuzzling soft wet spots onto his neck and chest and thighs and pretending, maybe, that the mask isn't there --

and that when Nightwing shudders hard under his too-skilled hands, shivers at the heat of his mouth, and moans his name, he means it more than just as a fling, in one window and out the other.

The rush of orgasm brings no clarity of thought, not at whatever time of the morning it is. It's worse with Bruce rubbing his shoulders and murmuring something that sounds not nearly urgent enough to hear before he gets up.

Being fed breakfast in bed -- small bites over the tray, by hand, as if he can't do it himself -- is overwhelmingly decadent, like everything Bruce has and does and is. Smoked salmon, fresh bagels, neufchatel cheese and fresh orange juice -- not just orange juice, but a mimosa. The next step into decadence, as ever.

The worst part is that when he's done, Bruce kisses him again and gets back into bed. "Go back to sleep." No food could be as comforting as the way he feels; no one else has the authority to be that comforting.

"This is ridiculous," Nightwing protests, but Bruce just chuckles at him and rubs his back until he's drifting off again. The apparent affection is painfully attractive -- Bruce is snuggling him, for god's sake, and it's enough to make Nightwing's mind as pink and fuzzy as Bruce pretends to be.

Damn him, anyway.

* * * * *

  
Bruce rejects several drafts of the note before he puts pen to paper, and he has to burn several more -- "Do be sure to try the --"

"It would be kind of you to wear the --"

"I would be disappointed if you did not wear --"

He settles at last on, "Your obligations are no doubt as pressing as mine in the morning. You have free rein of my medicine cabinet. If it is missing anything essential, do inform me. - B."

The glass bottle in question goes into the cabinet; the note is on the orange juice.

Someday Alfred may succeed in teaching young men not to drink from the bottle. Until then, he'll have to be contented with the certainty that at least they are getting sufficient vitamin C.

If the note goes undisturbed, Bruce will have to make sure Nightwing is getting nutrition by some other intervention. But perhaps not on a day when he has a ten-o'clock meeting.

* * * * *

  
Dick doesn't actually need to see Kory's face in the reflection of his screen to know that she's standing behind him. It's not just that she has this particular smell, a little alien and a little not, or that he recognizes the way she walks when she's making a point. It's mostly that he knows the sound of other people seeing her when she walks in to a room, and that's the sound in the bullpen right now: lots of heavy breathing, whispered comments and the collective gratitude of the masses.

"Dick," she says.

He winces, turns around, and tries to keep his smile healthy. It hasn't been that long since he saw her last, it just feels like it.

"Kory. I didn't know you were going to be in town."

"I thought it would be better not to give you advance warning," she says. She looks at him and frowns. "You should have told me you were --"

"It looks worse than it is," he says. She folds her arms. "Honestly. Would I --"

"Dick, this is exactly the sort of thing you always keep from your friends, from the people who --"

"I've been busy."

"So I hear."

There's part of Dick that knows that there's no way she could know exactly what's been keeping him occupied, not with the company he's been keeping, and then there's the part of him that's been around capes for most of his life, and knows that there are no secrets that can't be discovered.

"Can we talk about this somewhere else?" he says. "Why did you come here, anyway? I'm not even supposed to be working today, not when I've got PT and I'm really not making this any better, am I?" He's acutely aware of everyone watching him -- watching Kory -- and he's spent enough time in the public eye and avoiding it to know that they should get out, now, before someone starts taking pictures or asking personal questions.

He gets his crutches under his arms. Kory's frowning again, and it actually makes her a little bit less radiant, storm clouds covering the sun. "Can you manage without help?" she asks.

"I'm good." He takes a breath. "I've been using them for a few weeks."

"Perhaps you should let them know that you may be taking a long lunch. It appears we have much to discuss."

He's reconsidering leaving the station. There's a certain degree of safety in having others around.

* * * * *

  
Dick gets back from lunch late, if it even counts as late when he's not technically on duty. There's a voicemail for him from a blocked number. "Officer Grayson." It's Babs. Not Oracle, but Babs. "You sound so mature when you say it like that. Give me a call," and she leaves a Gotham-local number. She can't possibly be in town, but she's got her own superpowers to deal with that kind of thing.

He taps the framed photograph of her and wonders whether she knows she's got pride of place, next to Lian.

Allen comes over and picks up the signed picture of Kory. "You're a lucky bastard, you know that?"

Dick shakes his head. "She's an old friend."

"Sure she is." Allen grins. "Just takes you out to lunch on a whim, huh?"

"She's always been impulsive."

Allen chuckles. "I bet. Well -- tell her to come by more often." He puts the picture down.

"I might," Dick says, and Allen leaves. Dick looks at Kory's picture again -- her smile is almost as knowing as the one she was giving him over lunch -- and pushes it behind the shadowy one of Bruce and Tim.

He picks up the phone and calls the number Babs left. "Hello," she says after one ring. "How was your lunch?"

Dick puts her photograph facedown. It's too much to know she's watching and feel her eyes on him at the same time. "Did you set her up to that?"

"Honey, you know her better than that." Babs clucks her tongue. "I suggested. Gently."

"I take it you're worried about me."

"You should take a lesson from the princess and be more impatient."

Dick shakes his head, remembers she can't see, and remembers she probably can. "It wouldn't work."

Babs laughs. "He respects impatience in small doses. Especially from you."

"No."

"Of course he does, even if you're not wearing red anymore."

"Babs --" The thought of going back into that uniform, and how ill-fitting it would really be -- "No. He doesn't."

"Really, dear, the last person he'd ever fall in love with is Batman." She sounds almost like Oracle, flat and uninflected, and then her voice shifts back into Babs. "Everyone who knows you loves your passion, including him."

"But if I pushed --"

"Dick," she says, and he remembers the way she said it when they were -- too briefly -- together. The way she would hold him, and, worse, the ways she pushed him away. "When you push him, he'll respond. And he loves you."

Dick winces. "Maybe."

"You're an idiot," and that's Babs, through and through. "You're both idiots. But if you let him keep doing this, he will."

"It would be better than -- than not."

"Maybe," she says, "but you've got a dinner date at the Manor tonight, so dress nice."

"What?" Dick frowns. "How can I --"

"Alfred misses you. Go visit." She hangs up.

He stares at the receiver for a moment, sets it down, and props her picture up again. "That's -- well -- all right, Babs," he says, under his breath. But she did give him the frame, so maybe she hears that, too.

* * * * *

  
Dick knows better than to describe what he's doing as lurking. He's sitting in the library in full view of anyone who might happen to walk in -- not that anyone would -- and there must be at least one camera in here. He's just relaxing and enjoying the smell of old books. No subterfuge is, in fact, involved. If he was trying to be subtle, he wouldn't take down the copy of Tom Sawyer with the dog-eared pages and "Bruce Wayne" lovingly inscribed in block letters on the flyleaf, and he certainly wouldn't read it without gloves.

It's so quiet he can hear the clock tick. And when a car pulls up in the driveway -- the Manor is big, but it is also silent. Voices echo down the hallways.

"Dinner will be ready in half an hour," Alfred says, still by the door.

"What?" Bruce stops walking. "There was the international benefit for Sierra Leone, tonight. And Desirée --"

Alfred sounds -- completely dry, of course. But Dick can imagine that he would sound smug, if he wasn't Alfred. "Miss Martielle had to cancel, alas, and Bruce Wayne sends his regrets, and a check so large no one will note his absence."

Bruce hasn't taken a step yet. "She didn't call me."

"A mild touch of food poisoning, I believe, sir. You were busy."

"I would still have time for dinner, even if Desi's busy." Bruce sounds testy.

Alfred is as calm as ever. "You have a guest, sir."

Dick mutters, "Guess that's my cue," under his breath and gets up, snagging the bouquet of deep red roses off of the sidetable.

"A guest?" Bruce says, and Dick can hear that scowl.

"I got here a little early," Dick admits, coming out of the library with the flowers behind his back. "Sorry about that."

Bruce weighs his options, everything he could say, and all the possibilities -- in a twitch of expression -- before he says, "Dick."

Dick grins at him and offers him the flowers with a flourish. "I heard you were engaged. Congratulations."

"You heard a false rumor." Bruce looks from the roses to his face, still unamused. "Is that why you're here?"

"Oh, sort of." Dick shrugs. "But if you're not really engaged -- even though the papers said you were -- you'd better take the flowers, anyway. Call them a consolation prize."

He's still half a step ahead. Still winning, if there is such a thing. Bruce hesitates a moment before taking them. "Thank you."

"It was the least I could do. So what happened with Miss what's-her-name?"

There's a flicker in the corner of Bruce's mouth, but he's not going to smile. "I'm afraid she never really understood me."

Dick has to look at the floor to not laugh at that one. He shakes his head. "Yeah?"

"It wouldn't have worked out. I doubt she would have liked the real me." And that's definitely a sparkle, Bruce Wayne the playboy coming home from work.

It takes an effort to smile back -- to really smile, not just the way he would in a mask. "Maybe not. What's for dinner, anyway?"

"I don't actually know." Bruce looks at the roses again. "We could ask Alfred."

"No, we'll find out, I guess." The pauses between sentences are too long. Dick wants to kiss him and get it over with. To see what will happen, and who will kiss him back or throw him out. Not that Bruce can fire him, this time. It's probably too soon to do anything. They haven't even had dinner yet, and Alfred will be there any minute to tell them it's ready. So Dick clenches one hand into a fist -- Bruce -- well, he's paying attention, and he'll know there's something going on, but he knew it anyway. "Other than not getting engaged, how are you?"

"Life, as they say, goes on." Bruce twirls the bouquet. "Do you want a drink?"

"Sure," Dick says before he can think. Lowering his inhibitions might get him in trouble even faster. But Bruce is already heading for the dining room, and Dick has to follow. There's nowhere else to go. Besides, it's not like he gets this offer very often. It makes him feel weirdly grown-up; not that he couldn't sneak the occasional champagne at some bash or other, but Bruce just doesn't offer him alcohol.

Except for when he does, and when that happens, he apparently breaks out the extremely good bourbon. That tilt to his smile -- he's still playing a role, and Dick wonders what he's seeing. A mask? A wayward heir, come back to the family manse? Or Dick, really and truly, for once? "Here," Bruce says and hands him a glass. Dick tries to tell himself it's that smile. Bruce never used to do this around him, and now that he's started, Dick is in the habit of kissing him until the act stops mattering.

Trying not to push him against the stately, stable dining room table and kiss him is making Dick's hands shake. "Thanks." His first impulse is to toss the drink back and hope it quiets his nerves, but that would be a sin. Instead, he takes his cue from Bruce and sips it. "I take it this is the good stuff?"

That smile -- it's not an edge, it's a lack of edge. "Of course." Bruce toasts him offhandedly and has a drink, then licks his lips.

It's really beyond Dick's ability to watch that and not think about how easy it would be to fall into character and ask Bruce to blow him, right here. Of course Alfred would stay out of the way; he's got butler radar. And Bruce's mouth feels so damn good. Dick shakes his head and sits down. Rude, maybe, but he can always plead self-defense if it comes up. "Excellent. I mean -- I never really developed a taste for this kind of thing."

Instead of sitting at his normal place, Bruce sits next to him, close enough for Dick to hear him breathe. "I could help you with that."

Dick takes a bigger drink than he means to and coughs. "Thanks. Maybe."

"Are you all right?"

Whoever he's dealing with, it's not the person he wants to see. The Bruce he knows would never, ever ask that, because he'd know. It helps clear Dick's head a little. "Fine. I'm fine."

"Good." Bruce touches his hand, and Dick nearly spills his drink. Bruce doesn't seem to notice. "I had a visit from a friend of yours at the office this afternoon."

"Oh?" Dick tries to think of who would qualify as such, and wonders if Roy's dead yet. He was probably just blustering about Bruce, anyway.

Bruce smiles, drawing curves in the air. "Wonderful hair, and a rather forceful nature."

"Oh," Dick says, and wonders how much of the blush he can blame on bourbon.

"She seemed to be asking if my intentions towards you were honorable. Or possibly, if you were sexually satisfied. I'm not quite sure which."

Dick smiles at the table, which is safer than looking at Bruce. He might remember that Dick's not wearing a mask. "That's -- surprising."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Kory's normally pretty specific about questions like that."

"Kory, is it?" And there goes the role, again. "You'll have to introduce me to Miss Anders in less fraught circumstances, sometime."

"Bruce," he says, and -- is that really his voice? It hasn't cracked like that in years. But it's not the right time to talk about Kory, and if Bruce is back to firm adherence to the roles -- "It's too bad about the whole engagement thing."

Bruce chuckles and Dick feels part of his brain that would probably be very helpful in this matter turn off. He didn't come here to spend time with Bruce the professional twit, but it's such a familiar -- and, admit it, alluring -- mask, and not one he knows how to ask Bruce to take off. "It's really not that big a deal, Dick. At least I'm still free to play the field, right?"

That gives Dick a cold chill, even though it's warm enough in the dining room. "If you want to, anyway."

"I've never entirely understood why someone would want to limit themselves like that." Bruce is giving him one of those looks that dances along the edge between idiot billionaire and someone a lot more familiar.

It makes Dick feel a little queasy, but he smiles and takes Bruce's hand, stroking his knuckles. If Bruce is going to be touchy-feely, he'll have to deal with letting Dick touch him. "It's reassuring, knowing someone's going to be at your back, whenever you need them. Always there for you."

Bruce raises an eyebrow, and it would be a normal expression if he didn't squeeze Dick's hand while he was doing it. "How much backup do you really need? Are you that vulnerable, that your family's not enough?"

It's as bad as talking to Batman. Dick has to look away before he starts yelling at Bruce to just stop it. "Everybody is, sometimes."

"I've found that with sufficient planning, it's really possible to avoid the vast majority of vulnerabilities."

Dick squeezes his hand. "Not all of them, though."

Bruce gives him a very Batman look. "No. There's no such thing as a perfect plan."

Dick smiles back. "Good thing you've got backup, then."

Alfred opens the door from the kitchen. "Dinner is ready, sirs."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says.

"It smells great," Dick says, glancing at Bruce while he's a little distracted. He's not playing a role, now; not in front of Alfred. Alfred brings the tray, and Dick thinks about all the incredibly inferior dinners he's had, over the years, whenever he wasn't sitting at this table with the heavy Wayne family silver and the Limoges china.

"Ah," Bruce says when he gets a good look at the tray. " _Tartes aux Saint-Jacques_."

Dick bites his lip trying not to grin. Alfred catches his eye with a quelling glance, and it doesn't really help at all. "My favorite," he says, and it comes out a little wobbly with suppressed laughter.

"Is it?" Bruce asks.

"As far as seafood goes, anyway," Dick says, "though I guess it doesn't work very well with bourbon."

Bruce gives him a long look. "I'd offer you wine, but I expect we have some obligations tonight."

Dick smiles back. "I'm sure we do."

Alfred clears his throat. "I've chilled a bottle of Viognier, if you were interested."

"No, thank you, Alfred. This is sufficient."

Alfred nods. "Very good, Master Bruce." He goes back into the kitchen.

Dick switches back into real table manners, rather than the way he'd eat at a diner, and settles his napkin on his lap. "It's nice to have really good food for once."

Bruce smiles faintly, maybe switching roles again now that Alfred's gone. "Do you cook for yourself?"

"Sometimes. I'm not entirely used to having free time, yet," Dick admits, "after the job and -- and everything."

"Idle hands are the Devil's playground," Bruce says, and it'd be all right if he wasn't smirking like that. As it is, it just makes Dick think of Bruce's hands, and how delicious they feel when they're anything but idle.

"Um, yeah." He focuses on the food for a little bit, hoping to clear his head. "You know, someone offered me _tartes aux Saint-Jacques_ a while ago, but they never really followed through."

Bruce looks up at him. "Oh?"

"I wonder if they'd have been as good as Alfred's." Dick glances toward the kitchen door, then back at Bruce, who is settling into a wicked smile.

"I doubt it. These are certainly the best I've ever had," Bruce says. "He must have known you were coming home for the evening. He's always been disconcertingly well-informed."

"Coming home for the evening," Dick echoes him, then smiles. "I guess that's what I did, isn't it."

"I wasn't expecting you."

Dick suppresses a shiver. "Did you mind? I mean, I brought flowers, and everything."

It's a moment before Bruce answers. "No. I don't mind."

Bruce's cell phone rings and he gives Dick an apologetic glance before he pulls it out and answers. "Wayne here."

He frowns, pushing his chair back. "Tim -- give me your location." By the end of the sentence, Dick is already half out of his suit. When Bruce gets the address, they're both pelting for the clock, and Dick's shoes end up halfway across the dining room floor from his jacket. He has a moment's regret -- it's not where he wanted his clothes strewn all over -- but there are more important things to do.

"Take the bike," Batman says, and tosses him the keys. He's headed for the car, so the rest of it comes over Nightwing's comm. "Robin's on his way from Blüdhaven. It's Ra's al-Ghul, working with a cult." The comm is good enough that the rumble of the Batmobile starting is just barely there under Batman's voice. "They've been drugging their attendees, and then they skipped town, so they're all detoxing at once. Batgirl's got the ringleader, but we have to find the one in Gotham."

"Got it," Nightwing says, and starts the bike. "Which way should I head?"

"The docks," Batman says, and the Batmobile roars out of the cave.

"I'm on it. Where is the rendezvous with Robin?" Nightwing follows on the bike -- not his own, but as smooth as anything nevertheless.

"He'll be in Old Gotham. The cult in Blüdhaven was working with Desmond's leftovers." Batman's voice doesn't even waver at that. Nightwing bites his lip hard, but Batman goes on, "The Penguin may have been involved."

"Roger that."

"Leave the comm open," Batman adds.

"Always."

There's a lot of running around the city involved in trying to find the cult, but not a lot of comm traffic. It's almost like a normal patrol until he's working his way over the bars near the sixth pier and hears the tiny sounds of Robin trying to sneak up on him.

"Evenin'," Nightwing says.

Robin sighs. "I'll get you."

"Someday."

Their comms buzz to life.

"Nightwing, stake out the front of the warehouse on Meier and Seventh. Robin, take the back."

They're off the rooftop before they even start to think, and that makes sense for Robin. It doesn't make quite as much sense for Nightwing, who's not a damn sidekick anymore, but -- when in Gotham.

For the first hour, Robin talks about the 'haven -- the dirtiest corners, the worst places, and the excellent greasy spoons. Then they play a couple of rounds of long-distance I Spy, but it's hard from opposite sides of the building. When Robin picks I for International Space Station, Nightwing says, "Okay, game over."

"You've probably got other stuff on your mind, anyway," Robin says.

"You sound like Oracle," Nightwing accuses him.

"Don't." Even over the comm, Robin's contrition is obvious. "I -- I've just been watching you since I was nine. Both of you."

"You're still --" Nightwing sighs. "You're still my little brother. And you're going to give me advice, aren't you."

"Oracle didn't ask me to."

"That doesn't make it better."

"It's just -- it's going to be okay."

Nightwing snorts. "I'm not sure about that."

"No -- really. This is just B -- Batman. It's a test. An experiment, like everything he does."

Nightwing shakes his head, but of course Robin can't see that from the other side of the building. "But --"

"He thinks you're worth the trouble." Robin sounds kind of wistful.

"That's backwards."

Robin's shrug sounds like, "Hm." And his smile is just as audible. "It's Batman."

"Granted, but still. He knows what I want."

He can hear Robin tapping his fingers on the building very lightly. The pickup on these comms is amazing. "Okay, but there's got to be something else. You just have to figure out what the rules are."

"Nothing has changed. Except -- you know." He's not blushing. There's no reason to blush, and it's dark -- and his cheeks feel hot anyway.

The boy detective clears his throat. "Well, yeah."

Nightwing sighs. Sometimes family can be a little too close. "Maybe he doesn't want anything to change."

"Then he wouldn't have let you change anything to start with."

"Hey!" If the kid were over on his side, he'd tousle his hair, or just make him spar. Anything to change the focus. "This was his idea."

"Well -- still."

Nightwing shrugs. "It's just -- it's all really -- normal. Except for the parts where he won't talk to me."

He can hear Robin's smile. "That sounds like SOP to me. Maybe he's just afraid things will change more. Or that you want them to."

Nightwing hits the side of the building gently. "Of course I want them to. At least a little. I mean -- I don't expect him to stop being Batman, and I don't want any freaking romance. I'm not stupid. I just -- want him to say my name."

Robin sighs. "I used to think you guys understood each other perfectly."

Nightwing chuckles. "Yeah, I used to think that, too."

"Maybe -- maybe you just need to show him nothing has to change." Damn kid. He gets one iconic uniform and thinks he's the personification of optimism.

"I have been. Over and over. And I -- I don't know how much longer I can."

"Well -- promise him you're not going to suddenly turn into someone else, and --"

"Yeah, but --" Nightwing shakes his head. "That's what he gets from -- from Catwoman. She never --"

Robin interrupts him. "And she didn't even know his name."

"And now he's pretending he doesn't know mine."

"Yeah, but you both know that's not true. You have to make him admit it's not true, and show him it doesn't change anything. And -- and -- don't expect him to be anybody but -- but who he is."

Nightwing sighs. "I never have."

Then something blows up in the warehouse.

* * * * *

After the cult is dismantled and the leader's on his way to jail, Nightwing says over the comm, "I've got some of the gunk they left behind."

"Rendezvous at P-57."

"See you there."

Nightwing manages to beat him to the Batmobile -- it's a matter of agility, more than anything. When Batman lands, silent as ever, Nightwing offers him the sample cases. He comes close enough -- strangely close, for Batman, and Nightwing can touch his shoulder. His hand slides off the armor. Like it always does, and like it always will, but Batman turns to look at him. "Did you lose another bike?"

Nightwing grins. "No, it's twelve blocks away, is all. Can I get a ride over?"

Batman narrows his eyes. "That would take you ten minutes."

"Oh --" Nightwing shakes his head once, giving up, and kisses him.

Batman freezes -- and of course he would, even though there's still a scratch on the hood of the damn car from the metal on a certain police officer's epaulettes. He's only cold for a moment, though, and then he is hungry.

Being kissed by Batman like being punished, and devoured, and claimed, all over again. Nightwing can only cling to him and try to kiss him back, try to weather what he can --

And Batman pushes him away. "Don't you have a date?" His voice sounds thick.

Nightwing stares at him. "It's not that late, yet. And you have to take the samples back."

"Go."

He hesitates a moment longer. "What about that ride?"

Batman shakes his head. "I'm going straight to the cave."

"If you insist." Nightwing jumps up to the nearest fire escape and hits the rooftops. It does only take ten minutes to get to his bike, after all, but it would have been simpler --

None of this has been simple.

It's not safe to pull out the solvent for the mask and just wear the helmet, but he can't think of a better way to get the point across. Changing into civvies is even harder -- if he runs into any trouble on the way back, he's seriously handicapped.

He takes a somewhat indirect route back to the Manor, hoping no one is watching the tracers in his bike, and hoping that Bruce won't leave before he makes it there.

The tracers and biometrics get him into the cave with no problems, even as an unexpected guest. He leaves the bike where he normally would. By the time he's parked, Bruce is heading over. Glory be, he's got the cowl pushed back. His hair's a mess and he looks fantastic.

Off with the helmet, off with the jacket, off the bike, and Bruce is giving him a skeptical look, but at least he's not reaching for the cowl. "Dick," he says, eventually.

"I thought you had an appointment to keep." Bruce turns away, his cape sweeping grandly, and types a few lines into the computer.

Dick follows him, feeling as though he ought to be wearing shorts. No, not here, not now. "How long is the process going to take?"

"Several hours." The main monitor on the computer is full of charts and data, with one table labeled "Spectrograph." Bruce scowls at it.

"The wonders of modern technology, huh?" Dick says, and stands next to him. It's hard to know how close is too close, anymore -- they're not partners, exactly, and they're not fighting, but he doesn't have an excuse to be in Bruce's space.

Yet.

"Be glad you don't have to do it by hand." Bruce puts the monitor into power-save mode, and it gets a lot darker in that section of the cave.

There's part of Dick that wants to cower at his tone, but that's not happening, and part that wants to just give in. There are worse games in the world. But -- no. It's hard to reach out to him, to put his hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce never invites touch, but his defenses are up now. "Are you done playing games?"

Bruce runs a hand through his hair. "Dick --"

Dick squeezes his shoulder. "Just -- be everyone. Be them all at once, because I can't -- I've had enough."

"This is a mask, too."

"I know, but -- it's a lot more real than the other ones." Dick reaches up and touches his cheek. He can't help but think how real Bruce feels, how the tiny shifts of expression mean more, here, than anything over-exaggerated in a penthouse apartment could ever mean.

"More lifelike?" Bruce catches his hand and kisses his palm, his thumb. It makes him shiver hard. It's suggestive, and Bruce isn't pushing him away. "The illusion works."

"It's perfect, Bruce."

Bruce puts an arm around him with a swirl of cape and kisses him, hard at first like Batman, lingering like Bruce Wayne, and insistent like all of them. Dick clings to Bruce's shoulders and kisses him back, fast, breathless, and dizzy with relief.

"Hm. We'll have to see how long the façade lasts," Bruce says against Dick's neck.

"You're infuriating," Dick says, and bites his ear. "You made me fall in love with Bruce Wayne." It would be so easy for Bruce to switch back into character, one or the other, to sharpen or soften too far. Dick can hardly make himself shut up long enough to find out whether he has.

"God," Bruce says, and he has the grace to sound a little choked. "I hoped you had better taste than that."

"You kept teasing me," Dick says, and unfastens bits of Bruce's costume, trying to reach him. The configuration hasn't changed since the last time he had permission to do this, when it wasn't Bruce at all. "It was the only time I ever got to see you, in flickers, through him -- and I -- god, I can't stand it anymore."

"I -- didn't think you'd want him that badly." Bruce shivers -- not the way Batman would, with Dick's hand on him, but not a show, either.

"I never did. And I didn't want Batman. I wanted you." Dick kisses him hard, and Bruce leans into it, against him, until they're both breathless and Dick has to stop, has to breathe.

"Dick." Bruce kisses him again. "You'd be safer with them."

Dick laughs at him. "I can't do safe. Kiss me -- damn it, I can't believe I'm used to kissing you and I never even got you to say my name. Except that once."

Bruce keeps him at a little distance for a moment, one hand on his shoulder. It's frustrating, but it's quintessential Bruce. "This isn't the best place."

"Alfred --"

Bruce raises an eyebrow. "He's doubtless asleep."

"God, I --" Dick clings to him a little more, one hand tangled in his hair, the other on the armor covering his lower back. "I want you like this. I want -- all of you. Please." Bruce backs away enough that Dick lets him go, and he starts for the stairs. Dick follows him, just far enough away to avoid the cape. "Aren't you going to change?" Dick asks.

"Why?" Bruce pauses at the top of the stairs and Dick puts an arm around him, then steals another kiss.

"Cave. Manor. Thing." Dick pulls him close by the back of his belt, and Bruce embraces him. The next kiss makes Dick's spine melt. "God, do that again."

"Dick -- wait."

"I've been waiting," Dick says, and pushes him against the wall, falling to his knees.

Bruce gives him a perplexed look, but he doesn't push Dick away. "That must be -- less than comfortable."

"It's better than the Batmobile." Dick grins at him and leans in to suck him. The way Bruce feels in his mouth is familiar and addictive, and the soft, muffled noises are the silenced versions of moans he already understands. It's the strangest place he's ever had sex -- high above the cave floor, right below the doorway -- and it's what he's wanted, even if it's cold under his knees. Bruce manages an arched eyebrow before he fists one hand, hard, and tangles the other -- in its gauntlet -- in Dick's hair.

He tastes like Bruce and Batman, like everyone he's ever been or could be, and the silence -- broken only by a harsh breath, when he can't pretend, anymore, that he's not feeling this -- is perfectly himself. Bruce shivers, tenses, and says his name, hoarse and soft. Dick squeezes his hip and sucks harder.

Bruce lets himself moan and lean on the wall. It's like he's been waiting for this, too, between all the rules and under the masks. Maybe he has, or maybe they'll fall back into place again, but right now it's safe, for a moment -- enough that Bruce says, "Dick," like a curse or a prayer when he comes. He's got practice at dealing with that, anyway.

Bruce pulls him back to his feet by the shoulders and kisses him, hard as Batman, thorough as Bruce Wayne. Dick just clings to him and says in his ear, "I -- I hope you know how much I want you."

Bruce pets his hair more gently. "I can make a rough estimate." He kisses Dick again and disentangles. "Bed, first."

Dick grins briefly. "Traditionalist."

But he doesn't complain -- even though it's funny to sneak through the manor following almost-Batman-not-Bruce-Wayne, and the cape sounds entirely out of place. They don't even turn on the lights until they get to the bedroom, where Bruce Wayne had intriguing lighting installed, and is unafraid to use it. Even with a cape crumpled on the floor. At that point, Dick is almost prepared to admit it was worth the walk, especially when Bruce starts getting undressed, piece by piece.

It's beautiful and bizarre and all of his scars are showing.

Not that they didn't before, but now he's allowed to notice. To touch them. To push Bruce onto his back and bite at those scars, and Bruce lets himself -- breathe. Dick's hands are shaking so much that he can't manage two buttons and a zipper, but Bruce helps him out of his clothes, leaving them crumpled on the floor. "I feel naked," Dick says when he drops the second sock.

Bruce draws the lines of a mask on Dick's face. Nightwing's -- no, Robin's. "You never are."

"With you?" Dick kisses him again, again, because they've done this, and they've never done this. "Yes, I am."

"It's not safe," Bruce says.

Dick shakes his head. "Living with you never was." He rolls away, then pauses. "Which nightstand?"

"Both."

"And people say Clark's the Boy Scout."

"Hm." It's a laugh, really, though it's taken Dick too long to learn what it means. When Dick retrieves the lube and looks back at Bruce, he's lounging, scarred and spread and -- really, truly naked. It's easier to look at him, now that he's allowed to notice everything, from the scars Dick can remember helping to bandage to the fine wrinkles he didn't have when those wounds were fresh. He's still Bruce, because that tightness at the corners of his eyes doesn't belong to anyone else.

It doesn't belong in this moment, either. Dick strokes his thigh, trying to get him to relax. He wants everything -- everything they've done before, everything they've never done -- but Bruce is too tense. He looks like he's focusing his way into Batman, but this is no place for Batman. "Bruce, you know how much I lo--"

Bruce puts his hand over Dick's mouth. "Don't."

Dick grabs his hand and pulls it away, frustrated. "Motherfucker. I love you." Bruce closes his eyes in something Dick knows is nothing like his expression of pain. "And I want this."

Bruce's voice is taut, even though there's no tension in his body. "For how long?"

"As long as I can see you under the masks." Dick kneels over him and licks his ear. "And if you shut me out -- you're not who I think you are."

"And if I am?"

"I want you." Dick slicks his fingers and looks wry. "And I -- I just can't stop looking at you."

Bruce raises an eyebrow at him. "Is it that novel?"

Dick makes himself smile like he would at Bruce Wayne, easy and sensual. "You're the one with the romantic tracklights."

"Granted." Bruce doesn't smile -- except that his expression softens, and it's like he turned on another light in the room, warmer and more welcoming. "They don't get a lot of use, but --"

"Always prepared," Dick says, and presses a finger inside of him, slowly at first, then a little faster when Bruce lifts his hips to encourage him.

"Ready for any eventuality." He doesn't sound like Batman -- how could he, moving like that? Could anyone fuck the Batman? -- but he doesn't quite have the lascivious grace that Bruce Wayne has mastered. There's not a movement wasted. Bruce -- this Bruce -- is a man whose body is entirely under his mind's control.

And now he's not using that control to wear a mask.

It makes Dick shudder again, because naked, honest Bruce is a revelation. "God, I want this."

Bruce's smile is tiny enough to be real. He spreads a little farther, and Dick adds another finger. Bruce's breathing catches. "All that practice -- has paid off."

Dick laughs, and there may be an edge of hysteria there. "Only you could figure out a way to practice enough to make a first time perfect."

It makes Bruce smile -- mostly in the eyes, but -- it's Bruce. He's smug. "It will be worthwhile. Enough," he says, his voice crisp, and Dick stops, but Bruce is still smiling. "Do it."

There's got to be something deeply symbolic about all of this, but Dick can't put the thoughts together. He's not sliding smoothly into Bruce Wayne, he's not fucking Batman --

All he has, and all he wants, is the mix of amusement and desire in Bruce's expression, so subtle it almost gets lost in the tracklighting. There are no theatrical moans, no insulting nicknames. Bruce only sighs and arches up to kiss him.

He knows what rhythm Bruce wants, how fast to thrust into him, and exactly how hard to touch him. The heat of his body and the firmness of his erection, the way he smells faintly of aftershave and sweat -- Dick knows him all too well. Only his reactions are entirely new. Dick can't breathe too loudly, or he'll miss the choked sounds that Batman would never make, and which are entirely too quiet for Bruce Wayne. There's something intrinsically Bruce in every movement -- the way he concentrates, making sure that every stroke is perfect.

Maybe words are important, but words are too difficult. "Bruce --"

Bruce puts a hand on his hip and pulls him down, harder. "I love you, too." His voice is hoarse.

It makes Dick wince reflexively, waiting for the teasing "darling" -- but it's not a joke, for once. Not a smirk. Just Bruce, wry, affectionate, and shuddering. "Oh. God."

"I thought you knew." Bruce gives him a crooked smile.

Dick stares at him, looking for a mask. It's almost more frightening when he doesn't find one. "Sometimes. I --" He shakes his head and hears himself moan.

"Don't forget." There's a smile in Bruce's voice -- and he moves faster, his chest shining a little with sweat.

"I -- god --" Dick wants to stare forever, feel this forever, but there's no way he can even think for another moment, let alone keep his eyes open. He wants to say everything important, but he can't.

If it were anyone else, that might matter, but Bruce -- Bruce knows. And it was all supposed to be perfect and he's coming so hard, and Bruce --

\-- is smiling at him, when he opens his eyes, and it's easy to make him gasp for breath. Dick knows just where, just how to touch him, to make him come and lose the smile in a shiver, a quick, harsh shudder. His choked-off moan is a sound Dick has never heard him make before.

"God, Bruce," Dick says, when he gets his breath back. "That was --"

Bruce shakes his head. "Come here." It's too stern. Not stern enough. The vertigo is going to have to pass soon.

"I'm a mess," Dick says, and it's the absolute truth, but he's not going to refuse an invitation to hug Bruce, much less a demanding kiss. "And -- god."

"You always did best with hands-on practice," Bruce says, rubbing his back.

"They say it makes perfect," Dick says against his shoulder. "We can try again later."

Bruce strokes his hair, soft, comforting, and bizarrely intimate, for Bruce. "We may have enough time."

Dick knows his smile is rueful. "We'll do what we can."

* * * * *

  
Bruce's first impression of Dick in Saturday morning sunshine -- is hardly his first impression of Dick in Saturday morning sunshine, when he lets himself be even a little honest about the matter. Honesty is the somewhat difficult order of the day, though; Nightwing is easier to deal with, and much more self-contained.

Nightwing may be said to snuggle. Dick has his face buried in Bruce's shoulder and is clinging to him. Their legs are tangled together. If Dick weren't breathing so very regularly and shallowly, Bruce would be certain he was awake. At this point, the issue of whether or not he's wearing a mask is, practically speaking, moot.

Practicality apparently has very little to do with the matter.

On some level, this is certainly Bruce's doing -- the false complications he's introduced in order to make space for the real ones were not the most direct route to this admittedly desirable end -- but on the other hand, Dick was complicit in every step. Whatever practical purposes were served by the introduction of flirtation, illicit playboy romance, or Clark --

Dick was playing along. Inasmuch as Bruce made the rules and communicated them, it was still something that required cooperation.

There is a smug comment to be made about Dick's inherent flexibility, but Bruce is in the wrong mode to make it. He fulfills the desire to be arch by running his hand down Dick's back. Dick shifts a little, waking up, and looks up at him -- his eyes should not be surprising, however blue they are -- and kisses him. What had been drowsy relaxation changes tenor immediately.

Bruce would rather not shiver, but he has made himself too vulnerable to have a choice in the matter.

That Dick shivers, too, only consoles him in the most tactile of ways. "Morning," Dick says, and kisses him again.

He is too self-aware to think of something like losing oneself in a kiss, but this is one of the few moments when he regrets that awareness. There is no other shoe to drop, here, and all of the significant masks are known to both parties.

If he could only stop himself from responding to Dick's smile with one of his own, he would be certain that everything was all right.

He stifles any potential outbursts by kissing Dick again. It does nothing to restore the coherence of his thoughts, but he doesn't care quite as much. There are risks to balance. The perfect phrase for the occasion evades him. He settles, at length -- three kisses, five, eight -- on "So you stayed."

Dick frowns at him and says, "Bruce --" then shifts them both sideways until he's straddling Bruce's waist and pinning his wrists down -- no light game, but nothing painful. "Of course I did."

"You have other obligations." Bruce shrugs.

"I have my priorities." Dick mouths his neck none too gently. Revenge, perhaps.

"Have you examined them?"

Dick looks up at him with an expression that belongs in a crime scene. "Constantly."

"Don't stop." Bruce sits up enough to kiss him again.

"I wasn't sure I was one of your priorities," Dick says.

There is something there that none of the masks have touched. "Did you get the note?"

Dick raises his eyebrows. "Yes. What kind of invitation --"

"The cologne."

"It's the same one Alfred always gives me for --" He blinks once. "Ah. The mask."

It would have been a different discovery, had it happened sooner. Bruce makes a note to keep an eye on what Dick does to compensate for this lack. "That's the problem --- or the benefit -- with using scentless solvents."

Dick shakes his head slowly and smiles. "I'll just have to make sure I do an in-depth analysis of everything you give me."

"It would be prudent." Bruce hooks his leg around one of Dick's and flips them both.

Dick laughs and pulls him down for another kiss. Under Bruce's hands, his muscles relax a little, but not too much.

It feels as safe as anything can.

* * * * *

  
"I'm not selling the house." Dick puts on a bathrobe; his hair is still damp from the shower.

Bruce nods. "Good. Don't."

"Could clean out my old room, though." Dick glances at Bruce.

Bruce's smile is sharp. "You could, at that."

Dick smiles back and hands him a robe. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Keep your contingency plans."

Dick shakes his head. "I will. Breakfast?"

"Fine."

The morning sunshine makes the dining room warm. The portraits look almost pleased.

"Master Dick," Alfred says, bringing in a tray of pancakes. "Master Bruce." He smiles slightly. "Good to see you looking like yourselves."


End file.
